“OK, so I’m listening.”
“You play the school principal, they wanted an attractive older woman and my first thought was you,” he says.
“I’m touched,” I reply with a short laugh, and Jimmy’s encouraged.
“It starts out with you on the phone, the guy’s supposed to be calling you about his daughter. Then he meets you at your place, it looks like you guys are going to get into it. There’s some penetration, but only a couple of minutes. Then the young chick comes in, his ‘daughter’, and the two of you start doing her.”
I laugh out loud.
“Great story. Somebody’s getting paid to write this shit?” I ask between chuckles.
“Hell, I guess they are, honey. I sure didn’t make it up. And like I said, he cums all over her face, nowhere near you. You’re at the other end. She’s a real sweetheart, this girl. Nineteen years old, very pretty.”
“When’s this supposed to happen?”
“Next month, either Buffalo or TO.”
“Well, OK, do some more talking with these people. I’ll call you when I get home and let you know what my schedule looks like.”
“Great, Cat,” Jimmy gushes. “I told you it was something special.”
“OK, Jimmy. I guess you can call it special if you want,” and I laugh again. “I’ll get back to you later.”
“Right. Talk soon.” And he hangs up.
I set the phone down on the seat and finally get the car straightened out, looking around as I do. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Niagara-on-the-Lake. Niagara-on-the-Take, as some of the locals call it. Kindve an upscale party town, with some nice hotels and fine dining along with stores full of expensive clothes and curiosities. Its where I used to come to hide out, back in the days when I was working for the Agency over in Niagara Falls. Because where the Falls is neon and new hotels, Niagara-on-the-Lake is all small town Victorian quaintness, even with all the tourists. To get to the golf course you leave the main drag, the press of cars and humanity, turn off to a side street and follow the river to the club house. The oldest golf course in North America, so they say. So Randy used to tell me, at any rate. Randy the travelling salesman – lab equipment or something like that, he used to try and describe it to me sometimes. A regular from back in the days. Sold lab equipment all over the place but somehow he knew about every golf course from Niagara Falls to Windsor to Ottawa.
There’s a foursome heading by me as I get out of the car and lock up, they pass me on their way to the club house.
“She still looks good,” the youngest at mid forty or so says appreciatively.
He’s looking at my car, a 97 Cutlass Supreme SL, fully loaded and still gleaming white. Flawless in the bright sunshine.
“She’s holding up pretty well,” I agree with a smile at all four of them.
This time, he’s looking at me.
“I’ll say!”
It elicits a laugh from me and his three compadres too. I hesitate, fiddling with keys while I let them get to the clubhouse before me, get settled at a table to order drinks and forget about me and my car. That’s all I need when I’m trying to do a job, for Christ’s sake, is a bunch of holidaying yuppies trying to get naughty while the wives are maxing out credit cards on imported linens and china. After a few minutes, I make my way in quietly, pulling up a seat at the end of the bar.
God, and it does take me back. Waiting for Randy at this very same bar, then a drink before heading to the hotel room. At least a dozen times over about a year and a half. He’d introduce me to local businessmen. They must have been used to Randy’s ways, they never batted an eyelash as his arm snaked around my waist or a hand would drop nonchalantly on my thigh. Maybe they didn’t even know he was married, though. Randy was like a lot of guys. He lived his life in little compartments and nobody really had a look at what was in all of them at once. The last while, just before I quit the biz, he used to hire me for whole weekends and we’d do it all – five star restaurants, plays at the Shaw Festival. I mean, if I was ever going to fall for a date, it would have been Randy, hands down. But, as always with these situations, it worked because we both knew the deal.
She clears her throat again, the bartender, and I finally let myself get pulled out of the memory.
“Sorry,” and I smile, that one that you use on other women. “I guess I’m lost in space. I’ll have a Caesar, please,” and I smile again.
“No problem,” and she smiles back.
I turn to look out the glass doors; from the lounge you can see the games starting and ending as the summer evening just begins to fade. She brings me my drink a few minutes later and I fiddle with the lime. My buddies from the parking lot are happily immersed in noisy conversation about the game they’re about to play. There’s no one here I recognize. It seems strange. Then again, the guys I used to see here were weekday regulars, leaving the manager or maybe the wife in charge of the store while they’d sneak out for a round. On a Thursday night in July it looks like a lot of out-of-towners.
“Can you tell me what time it is?” I ask my pleasant bartender.
She glances at her wrist.
“About twenty to nine,” she says.
“Thanks.”
He was supposed to start between seven and seven thirty, this guy, and it’s only nine holes. So if he’s not here now it should be any time. The minutes tick by as I sip on my Caesar and sit quietly, unobtrusively for now. I order a second drink somewhat reluctantly after half an hour. It’s not recommended, getting drunk when you’re trying to outsmart somebody, and that’s all this really is. But, on the other hand, they won’t just let me sit here.
“Waiting for someone?” she asks while handing me the glass.
“No,” I answer. “I used to come here, some years ago. Maybe four of five. I was in town on some business, and I just thought I’d drop by and reminisce.”
This time my smile is a little more irregular, more genuine, and it’s accompanied by a rueful little sigh. It’s what happens when you’re silly enough to tell the truth. She answers something and turns to the next customer, but my eye has already caught them on the last green. It’s gotta be my boy Edward. Medium height, dark, wavy, extravagant hair. Same sunglasses as the picture. And the blond giant there has got to be the friend she mentioned. The wife, that is, she said to look out for the blond giant in Edward’s foursome.
I watch as they finish the round. I can’t tell by their faces who won, they’re all laughing.
“Could you watch my drink for a few minutes?” I ask the bartender.
“Sure.”
It’s timed just perfectly. I slide off my jacket as they’re entering the clubhouse, turn elegantly on my heels to take a slow, tight walk across the floor to the ladies’ room. The theatrics are necessary in this case. The guy’s here with his buddies, they just finished a round of golf and they want to drink and tell stories. Just sitting there at the bar and batting my eyelashes won’t work. But if he’s as much of a dog as the wife says, this should get his attention. And I do need to check the exterior at this point.
I stare back at myself from the mirror for a moment after I wash my hands, rubbing a smudge of mascara out from under my eyes. The make-up’s good still, it’s flawless. And the pink dress, well, I never liked it much, but other people seem to. Men always like it. Eye make-up and a tried and true outfit. A formula that’s never failed me yet. I walk back to my stool, stopping just for a second to open and look into my tiny purse as if I just thought of something. Push my hair back over my shoulder seductively. Look under my eyelashes for a reaction. Bingo. He’s looking right at me. And I smile back, this time the one that’s reserved for men.